


to feel my stars align again

by emptyhalf



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Asexual Character, Coming Out, F/M, M/M, asexual george, teenage fumbling a bit, working out your identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27213823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptyhalf/pseuds/emptyhalf
Summary: No one’s ever asked George if he’s a virgin - which he isn’t really, not quite but he’s pretty sure even Lando’s actually done more. George doesn’t wear it with the same desperation though so it never comes up, whereas teasing Lando about his endless, horny frustration is much more fun.
Relationships: Jamie Chadwick/George Russell, Lando Norris/George Russell
Comments: 17
Kudos: 105





	to feel my stars align again

**Author's Note:**

> It's ace week! Here is a fic with an ace character! That's my entire thought process! I hope it is not offensively innaccurate!

“Right? Who _wouldn’t_ want to fuck her?” Lando sighs it out dramatically, rejected once again from some (George suspects, quite inept) Instagram approach and he tries not to giggle, watching Lando flop into a bean bag like the sulky teenager he is.

“Me,” says Alex, not looking up from the data or whatever he has on sheets on the table, earnestly sucking the tip of a pencil in consternation at a braking line or something.

“Yeah, well, you have a girlfriend-”

“Or me,” Sacha snickers it and Lando throws a decorative cushion at him.

“You’re gay. I meant people who fancy girls.” George feels for Lando, a little bit - he’s still kind of kid-looking and shy and completely hopeless as soon as he’s around anyone with boobs. But also, this is a fairly hilarious semi-weekly occurrence in the support paddocks’ fanzone, while they’re waiting for whatever-it-is now and George _doesn’t mind_ demoralising him a little further away in the championship.

“Me neither,” he says and Lando looks genuinely shocked.

“What? _George._ ” He shrugs, leaving Lando to carry on, aghast, “Fuck me, you all have terrible taste.”

“I would if I did,” Sacha murmurs, mildly and Alex barks a laugh that cuts through the last of the tension, even Lando giggling. 

No one’s ever asked George if he’s a virgin - which he isn’t really, not quite but he’s pretty sure even Lando’s actually done more. George doesn’t wear it with the same desperation though so it never comes up, whereas teasing Lando about his endless, horny frustration is _much_ more fun.

\-----

He’s romantic, likes pretty girls and the very occasional pretty boy, the idea of holding hands and kissing and _falling in love._ Probably more than any of his peers, bar maybe Sacha, do and he tries not to think about the fact that’s probably a little bit prompted by both of them not quite believing they’ll ever be allowed it.

Lando falls in love four times a week, where ‘love’ is his latest burst of optimism that someone might pick him over Sergio or Jordan and Alex just has A Girlfriend, who George is fairly sure he gets up to all kinds of filthy shit with but Alex projects enough energy to not need to _tell_ anyone that. 

Jack definitely has a girlfriend, who mildly scares George still and Nicky is sort of a mystery but definitely _chases_ girls occasionally, if they’re all cheeky enough to have snuck into the Amber Lounge or something and he’s not got Lando’s stuttering lack of confidence or any obvious preferences.

The others don’t notice but Sacha, shrewdly examining him one day, says, “Mercedes couldn’t do anything to you if you came out, you know.”

George feels unfairly cowardly. “I know - but it’s not that.”

Sacha raises an eyebrow, “Really?”

He shakes his head because it’s hard to explain and he doesn’t really want to, ambushed into trying to form words around something that just _is,_ for George - even though it doesn’t seem to be for anyone else.

“Huh.” Sacha sounds disappointed and George kind of gets it, it’d be nice not to feel alone. 

\-----

Jamie kisses him at the BRDC after party and it’s the _worst._ Not because George doesn’t fancy her - of course he does, he’s not stupid - but because it’s all _wrong,_ completely.

They’re a little bit tipsy and they’d been flirting, like they always have and Jamie’s getting bolder and bolder until George sits down at a booth and she slides onto his lap, straddling his thighs. It’s nice, her weight across him and he puts his hands on her thighs, strokes his fingers over her bare skin.

She leans forward, forearms propped on his shoulders and he likes the weight of the muscle there, the way she feels very stable on his lap. Most of all he likes when they lock gazes and she looks away for a second, blushing and with mascara-lengthened lashes casting shadows across her cheeks in the low light; it’s so different to the confident way she’s climbed on him and George feels a pang of something soft.

It’s gone in a second, blinked away as she grins wickedly, mutters “ _touch me_ ” and goes in for a kiss. 

It’s hot and heavy and Jamie is clearly keen to grind on him, shifting to get his hands closer to the hem of her dress, more onto the inner edges of her thighs and George is temporarily poleaxed with panic. He _likes_ Jamie, would like this for real with her, maybe but not _this._ Her tongue’s in his mouth and he knows he ought to be enjoying it - and could be - but she so blatantly wants to fuck and he knows he doesn’t. 

George pulls back, then back a little further when Jamie chases him and she’s eager and beautiful and has a flush to her that says just kissing him was getting her off that makes his stomach twist. 

“Sorry - I’m. I’ve definitely drunk too much. Fuck.”

“It’s ok,” she says, giggling and he wishes it was about what it’s really about, not his excuse because. “Pretty sure you can still get it up.”

And ok, yes, he’s got a panic-induced half-hard-on, the sort of adrenaline erection a great pole lap makes awkward to rearrange your race suit before you get out of the car but it’s not _like that._ “Maybe - but I really, really don’t want to throw up on you.”

She pouts, smooths the collar of his shirt down, kisses him again, once, more gently and it’s nice enough that George nearly goes with it but she’s getting off him the second he’s getting onboard. “Next time, G.”

Jamie disappears, clearly on a very specific mission that doesn’t involve his reticence and George miserably stares into his wine glass, shirt rumpled in his own reflection and feeling the same inside. He’s not sure how long it takes before Lando sits down next to him, budging George along. “She scares the shit out of me.”

George doesn’t quite follow what Lando’s talking about for a second, then realises there must have been witnesses to the thing with Jamie. “Yeah, not sure you’ve got any chance there, mate.”

Lando shakes his head, shoulder-budges George. “Same as usual, then.”

He supposes it kind of is. 

\-----

He’s not an _arsehole,_ so he texts her the next week, asks if she wants to go for a drink or a Sunday roast or something. 

She takes the piss out of his assumed hangover, for a few messages, then says maybe they could skip the drink beforehand, to avoid missing out again and the emoji afterwards are _very_ suggestive.

George stares at it for awhile and doesn’t reply. He thinks he might not really be her type, which is a shame because he’s _liked_ her for ages - the blunt sense of humour, the fact she’s insane enough to drive the Nordschleife and probably massively better at it than him, the way she always looks defiant, somehow, when she’s excited and her rulebreaker streak is the kind of wild he loves.

But if _that_ really matters to her then this isn’t going anywhere. So maybe it’s better to be an arsehole, leave her on read.

It’s coolly cordial between them, next time they see each other, takes a year or so to get back to being mates. _Ugh._

\-----

George looks across at Lando, during the driver parade one day and thinks _fuck._ Because this has crept up on him but at some point Lando stopped looking like a kid and is now looking up at George with big, soft eyes and George really wants to kiss him, even though that would be a supremely stupid thing to do right now.

He makes a joke of it for the rest of the year, their rookie season in F1, grabs Lando round his waist and hugs him from behind, takes full height advantage to loom over him or wrestle him, tries not to think about the way they have little _moments_ where Lando looks overwhelmed because he does that with Carlos, too, so it doesn’t mean anything. And if he leant that way, George is pretty sure Sacha would have had first pick, so it’s just nice to have the comfortable contact.

Lando starts snuggling into him, tucking himself under George’s arm in a boyfriend-grip and George tries to stop himself falling because this is stupid. Lando’s into instagram girls and his now less-rare successes with the trackside models and the one thing he knows for _sure_ is that he’s horny and stupid. 

George doesn’t want a repeat of Jamie. It’d be a lot more awkward, spending so much time together and Alex would get incredibly stressed out by them both.

So he doesn’t say anything when Lando starts holding his hand, sometimes and sitting in George’s lap because he’s just taking the piss, of course. Tries to stop himself feeling jealous when Lando asks him if he’s coming to the Amber Lounge in Mexico and George decides watching him pull some rich girl is a step too far for his heart, doesn’t think about the way Lando had looked crestfallen.

It’s a shock when Lando kisses him in Abu Dhabi, shy and urgent, like it was something he’d needed to get out. He looks as surprised at himself as George is, after and for a second they both stare at each other, in the hotel corridor.

“Uhm.” Lando stutters it, “Sorry, I just - I don’t know.”

“Yeah, no.” George tries to get his brain to kick back into gear and do something useful, like he’s somehow stalled himself. “No that was - look, maybe - it was nice, we should… not here? When we’re home?”

Lando nods, biting his lip like he’s trying not to laugh in some sort of relief or panic or something. “Yeah, sorry. Here is…. Not _ideal,_ is it?”

George smooths a hand down his shoulder, pulls him close for a second, “Not really, no. We should probably talk about, y’know, all that sort of stuff.”

“God.” Lando giggles into his shirt for a second, “Sacha is going to _kill_ me.”

\-----

It’s not that George avoids the conversation but they have the test and then he’s at Mercedes and there’s a lot going on, so it takes a few weeks before they actually sit down, awkwardly, in a restaurant that’s too upmarket to be casual and isn’t really either of their style. Or a good place to talk, trendy music a little too loud.

Lando’s made an effort, wearing a nice shirt and it sort of bothers George because he likes him in hoodies and bundled up in thousands of jackets or sprawling in t-shirt and shorts. He’s wearing the same and it feels like a sponsor thing, the small talk friendly enough betwee them but hardly romantic, until they’ve got their coats on, bundled into the cold air and end up _talking,_ at last, in great gusts of condensation, each leaning on their cars.

“You should - I don’t know what you want, so maybe tell me first but there are things I need to say,” he’s been working on it, formulating it in his mind, how to break this to Lando. 

“Mm, I don’t know? I don’t really know when I started - it wasn’t like I woke up one day and was like ‘fuck, I fancy George,’ you know? I don’t know. I just - I guess I, like,” Lando scrunches his nose. “Like, in Abu Dhabi I didn’t really think about it, it was just like, you were there and it felt kind of normal even though it’s not.”

“I did.” Lando looks up at him, hugging himself through his jacket and huffing a little cloud of surprised breath into the frost-crisp air. “Just realised I fancied you one day, that is. In Barcelona - I don’t know why, you just smiled at me on the parade and I was like ‘s _hit, I want to kiss him._ ’”

They’re both blushing, the heat on George’s face feeling almost enough to offset the cold coming up through the soles of his shoes, sharp and grounding. “But I don’t - I don’t really know how to say this, so you’ll have to let me talk-” Lando immediately looks like he’s about to interrupt, then looks slightly apologetic, closes his mouth.

“I don’t want a sex thing.” Lando shakes his head, nearly opens his mouth again and then nods minutely for George to carry on, “Like, at all. If you want to fuck, we should just forget this - not because it’s gay, don’t look like that, just because I don’t want to and I probably won’t ever want to.”

The condensation in the cold air makes Lando’s habit of expressive sighs much more dramatic, before he replies. “Ok, well. I hadn’t - I dunno, I hadn’t even really. How does that even work?”

George shrugs, he’s definitely not the expert. Even in this particularly rookie field.

“Right. Well.” Lando looks a bit lost, rambling. “Do you… I don’t know, this is so fucking awkward now. Do you still want to kiss me?”

Their noses are cold and they’re both nervous and a car drives past them, the headlights’ sharp illumination making them spring apart and giggle for a few seconds but it’s nice, tentative, not rushing and George likes the feel of Lando pressed against him. Even if he is getting cramp in his left foot from the cold.

\-----

Maybe because they were friends before, it’s pretty easy to just hang out a bit more, a bit closer. Until the kissing is less awkward and the holding hands is more comfortable, until they both get to grips with what they actually want and telling each other what that is. 

George likes tucking Lando against him, Lando’s arm round his waist and Lando likes being spoilt and petted and having his hair stroked, sprawled on George. They bicker almost continuously but the one time Lando says something so bitchy it cuts - a jibe about the points that’s just too far - he apologises immediately, gives George space to get over it.

No one seems to notice, at first, that Lando and George become Lando _and_ George but Alex asks them, after the Autosport Awards and a few drinks and Lando looks so excited that he finally gets to tell someone he pretty much vomits it out in a garbled mess that leaves George to fill in the finer detail of how long and what their plan is.

By testing, something clenches or swoops or something in George’s chest every time he sees a small, bright orange figure wrapped in hundreds of layers and stuffing something into his mouth as he half-shuffles across the paddock. And the thousand-watt smile Lando gives him every time they see each other makes it worse. 

George isn’t exactly sure what they’re doing - or if Lando counts it as _dating_ or whatever, although he definitely seemed to think they were together while he was having verbal diarrhea at Alex - but he gets used to Lando being around and annoying and a nice weight against him and tripping over Lando’s socks, abandoned around George’s flat. There’s a pleasant lack of pressure about it, which is nice compared to everything else in his life.

When McLaren pull out of the Australian Grand Prix, George knows he probably _shouldn’t_ have Lando curled against him on his bed to whisper fears back and forth between them but there’s a particular intimacy to being scared, together. 

“What if we get it?”

George shakes his head, pulls Lando closer, “We’re not going to get it.”

He doesn’t _know_ that but it feels likely. Maybe? Or everyone’s already got it and the world’s going to hell, regardless. 

“I’d be so fucked off if you died. All this stupid, gay angst for nothing.” Lando lightly thwacks him in the chest, for emphasis. 

“I’m not going to _die._ ” George pokes him, just to emphasise that he’s very much still alive and able to retaliate, “What do you mean ‘gay angst?’”

Lando grimaces, makes a huffy noise, “I don’t know - I just. I really like you and it’s still kind of weird, you know?”

George hums because he knows what Lando means, everything so tentative and new it’s all stepping into the unknown.

\-----

The unknown turns out to walk all over the majority of the year.

\-----

It’s so long before they’re in bed together, again, in Austria that George almost assumed it was impossible. Now there’s an annoying Twitch streamer lying _mostly_ on top of him and Lando’s heavier than before, bulked out with lockdown training but it’s still nice.

He decides to get something completely different but no less weighty off his chest early, having been dwelling on it much too long. “Didn’t think you’d still want - well, I don’t know. Figured you’d rather blow off frustration with someone or whatever.”

Lando glares at him, “What’s _that_ supposed to mean? Anyway, isn’t sex illegal or whatever now.”

George hadn’t thought of that but it’s kind of funny, maybe. Doesn’t panic when Lando shifts up to kiss him because he knows he _knows_ and can just relax into it.

He falls asleep with Lando’s hair in his face, wakes up with a dead arm and still finds himself _horrifically_ fond.


End file.
